Kathy Reichs - Bare Bones

“He did sometimes work here on his laptop. But I haven’t noticed anything in the house.”

“A folder? An envelope?”

Looper shook his head.

“A briefcase?”

“Wally does usually carry a briefcase. That and his precious laptop.” Pop. Pop. “He doesn’t keep a desktop computer here.” Looper rose. “I’ll look around his room.”

Slidell lumbered to his feet and held out a hand.

“How ’bout I have a peek at the prof ’s wheels while you two check out his crib.”

“Whatever.” Suit-yourself shrug.

Looper produced a set of keys, then turned and walked toward the back of the house. I followed. Slidell exited through the front door.

Cagle’s bedroom was ICU clean and OCD neat. Big surprise.

The search took five minutes. I saw no sign of a file or photos in Cagle’s dresser or desk drawers, closet, or under his bed. There was nowhere else to look. Frustrated, I trailed Looper back to the living room.

“Let me understand this,” Looper said, tucking one foot under him as he resumed his seat. “You spoke to Wally on Thursday?”

“Yes,” I replied. “He was in Beaufort.”

“Was he driving up just to send you this report thing?”

“He said he was heading home anyway.”

“Hmmm.”

Slidell rejoined us, shaking his head.

“Does that surprise you, Mr. Looper?” I asked.

“During the summer, Wally never returned to Columbia on Thursday. He always stayed at the dig until Friday. That’s why I was so surprised to find him here.”

“You have no idea why he might have been coming back early?”

Looper pulled the foot out, crossed his legs, and popped the flip-flop several times, the ankle-flexing more agitated than before.

“I was out of town all week, myself.”

“Why was that?” Slidell.

“I’m in sales.”

“What is it you sell, Mr. Looper?”

“Pumps. The hydraulic kind, not the ones you wear on your feet.”

If this was an attempt at humor, Looper’s delivery was beyond dry.

“I wasn’t supposed to get back until Friday, but my appointments wrapped up earlier than I’d expected.”

“Landed the big one?” Slidell.

“Actually, no.”

“Do you have any guess as to why Wally might have cut short his workweek in Beaufort?” I asked.

Though one shoulder rose in a nonchalant shrug, Looper’s face tensed visibly.

“We’re here in regard to a murder investigation, Mr. Looper,” I prompted.

Deep sigh.

“Wally may have been planning a rendezvous.”

Deeper sigh.

“A tryst.” Shoulder. “Behind my back.”

There was a long silence. Even Slidell was shrewd enough not to break it.

“Wally met with someone. They didn’t know I saw them together, but I did. In a coffee shop near campus two Fridays ago.”

“And?” Slidell.

“There are certain things you just know.” Looper inspected his bare toes.

“Know?” Slidell’s voice was like razor wire.

Looper’s gaze came up and locked on Slidell’s.

“It didn’t look like a business meeting.”

“Were the two of them holdin—”

“Can you describe the man?” I cut Slidell off.

Looper sniffed, and his brows arced upward.

“Pretty.”

“Could you be more specific?”

“Hunky build, salon tan.”

“Tall?”

“No.”

“Glasses? Facial hair? Tattoos?”

Continuous head shake.

“Hair?”

“Hugh Grant with a black dye job.” Sniff. “Looked like he was done up for a GQ shoot.”

Looper gave an eye roll that made Katy look like a tenderfoot, recrossed his legs, and went back to picking at his thumb.

“You didn’t know this person?”

Head shake.

“Have you and Dr. Cagle been having difficulties?” I asked gently.

Slidell sheeshed air through his lips. I ignored him.

Looper shrugged and popped the flip-flop. “Some. Nothing ghastly.”

“Is there any chance at all that Dr. Cagle might be able to speak to us? To communicate?”

Looper rose, walked to a credenza, picked up and dialed a phone. After a pause he asked about Cagle’s condition, listened, thanked the other party, said he’d be by shortly, and disconnected.

Keeping his back to Slidell, Looper ran his right palm across each cheek, and breathed deeply. Then he squared his shoulders, wiped his hand on his cutoffs, and turned.

“He’s still comatose.”

Slidell’s face registered nothing.

“What hospital?”

Looper bristled slightly.

“Palmetto Health Richland. He’s in cardiac intensive care. His doctor’s name is Kenneth MacMillan.”

Slidell moved toward the door. I rose and approached Looper.

“Are you going to be all right?”

Looper nodded.

Digging a card from my purse, I scribbled my name and cell phone number, handed it to him, and squeezed his hand.

“If you come across the missing file, please let me know. And please call when Dr. Cagle wakes up.”

Looper looked down at the card, flicked a glance at Slidell, came back to me.

“I will definitely call you.”

He turned to Slidell.

“You have a really special day.”

Looper’s left hand still gripped the phone so tightly his wrist cords bulged like the live oak’s roots.

Slidell lit up as soon as we hit the sidewalk. At the Taurus, I opened my door and waited out his Camel moment.

“Think there’s any point to swinging by the hospital?” I asked.

Slidell flicked his butt, ground it with the ball of one foot.

“Can’t hurt.” Blotting his forehead with one wrist, he yanked open the driver’s side door and jammed himself behind the wheel.

Slidell was right. It didn’t hurt. Nor did it help. Walter Cagle was as dead to the world as Looper reported.

His doctor could offer no explanation. Cagle’s vital signs had stabilized and his heart showed no damage. His white count, EEG, and EKG were normal. The man simply wasn’t waking up.

We’d barely left the hospital when Slidell started in.

“Sounds like trouble in queen city.”

I did not reply.

“The princess thinks the contessa was getting his weenie stroked behind his back.”

Nope.

“And he don’t like the fact that the whistling gypsy lover is a looker.”

Catching the look on my face, Slidell fell silent. It didn’t last.

“Suppose Looper and that Gestapo secretary are describing the same squirrel?”

“It’s possible.”

“Think Cagle was seeing this guy on the side?”

“Looper may have imagined the romantic angle. It could have been anything.”

“Such as?”

I’d been asking myself that same question.

“Such as a potential student.”

“Gestapo Gert said the guy asking for Cagle wasn’t a kid.”

“Adults enroll in college courses.”

“Someone interested in a program would have left a message at the department office.”

True.

“A workman of some sort.”

“Why meet the guy in a coffee shop?” Slidell asked.

“An insurance salesman.”

“Ditto.”

“Walter Cagle is a grown man.”

Slidell snorted. “Squirrel probably vacations at the Y.”

Slidell’s homophobia was getting on my nerves.

“There are any number of persons with whom Walter Cagle might have shared a cup of coffee.”

“A pretty boy with drop-dead good looks that nobody close to the guy ever laid eyes on?”

“A lot of men fit that description,” I snapped.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Real men?”

“Ball busters!”

“You know any?”

“My daughter’s boyfriend,” I shot back without thinking.

“You sure he’s a boy?” Slidell patted his hair, flopped one wrist, snorted at his own joke.